from Psalm 43
Do me justice, O God, and fight my fight
against a faithless people;
from the deceitful and impious man rescue me.
For you, O God, are my strength;
why do you keep me so far away?
Why must I go on mourning
with the enemy oppressing me?
You seem to me devout in your faith, but I’m not much of a church-going woman. I wanted to tell you I attended services this morning with my husband. I didn’t know what else to do.
Because I spent last night weeping for your dead son.
No, not for Trayvon Martin, your boy I never knew, your boy who everybody now claims to know, your mythologized boy whose broken body you healed in his boyhood. I cannot know or pretend to know your mother’s grief.
I spent last night weeping:
I wept out of shame, because our country disappointed me so badly that I wasn’t sure I could ever love it again. Because our country owes you an apology. Because our country should get on its bony knees and repent.
I wept for my students, especially my male students, because I know as only a teacher and parent of teenage boys knows such things that they are still learning how to become men. Seventeen year old boys can’t always tell when to play aggressive and when to play calm, when to push back at the world as they will inevitably have to do, when to puff their chests, and when to run. They might choose poorly, and adults are meant to protect them by choosing wisely.
I wept because I had a poet’s words in my head the sadness lives in the recognition that a life can not matter. Because I helped raise that poet’s daughter, a daughter with a black mother and a white father. Because once, while she sat in the bathtub and I on the toilet holding her towel, she said, “I am dark like Mama and you are light like Papa.” And I told her, “Yes. But it doesn’t matter.” Because I’m afraid I lied to her and that it does matter and that I knew I was lying and because maybe I was afraid to say it mattered because I didn’t want to “see ominous clouds of inferiority beginning to form in her little mental sky.”
I wept because I am a woman, and therefore, I too know the world is a dangerous, unjust place. Because I know the endangered can never explain to those people who have always been safe just how dangerous. Because I am a woman and people might excuse violence against me because of the body I was born into, because of what clothes I might wear, or where I might walk at night, or because I might respond to a predator with something less than deference.
I wept because people have guns who do not need guns. Because those people often think they’ll be better than their darkest anxieties and fears, their most deeply embedded biases. Because that’s the worst kind of arrogance: to assume we can see, name, and control the violence inside us.
I wept because Florida decided that a man can lynch another man and hide the word “lynch” from the world–and worse still from himself–inside legalese.
I wept because on Day 23 of the trial you tweeted You can break a woman down temporarily but a real woman will always pick up the pieces rebuild herself and come back stronger than ever. Because I hope you’re right, but I’m not sure.
I wept and I wept.
When I arose from all that weeping, like I said, I went to church. The Gospel reading for today came from Luke, the tale of the Good Samaritan.
Just then a lawyer stood up to test Jesus. “Teacher,” he said, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?” He said to him, “What is written in the law? What do you read there? He answered, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with your soul and with all your strength, and with all your heart; and your neighbor as yourself.
Your neighbor as yourself. Your neighbor. Your neighbor.